


Dangerous Dance

by hellkitty



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: F/M, Size Kink, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 07:07:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2015703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For tf-rare-pairing fic a thon prompt TFA Megatron/Arcee femme fatale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dangerous Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Arcee's toy comes with two little blue daggers, and though we never see her use them in canon, hey, they are canon! :D

 

They were always underestimating her. She was small, and pink, and soft-spoken, and it made her easy to talk over, easy to look over, easy to ignore. When she brought in intel, having worked sources, dodged through both lines of battle to reach HQ, they took it from her as easily as if she were a secretarybot who had just walked it down the hall, while others who did the same, like Jazz, won awards, had drinks bought for them, got friendly slaps on the back as they passed.

She didn’t want awards, or free drinks, or slaps. Not really. She should want just to do her job and do it well, and help the Autobot war effort. She shouldn’t want recognition, she felt bad for the little spur of jealousy she felt, over things she didn’t even really want.

She just wanted...she wanted to be taken seriously.

So she’d come up with her own plan, and filed it, and she’d watched the secretary not even forward it on to Longarm Prime, but stamp it approved.  Just like that. Because they figured it was like all her other missions: things that she summarized in brisk, efficient sentences about ‘crossing enemy lines’ and rating the resistance along a numbered scale--words that told less than half the tale.  

And here she was, and she was beginning to have second--maybe even third--thoughts, but it was too late to pull out now.

And by ‘too late’ she meant Megatron’s hand was already sliding up her thigh.  

Well, she never had backed out of anything, now that she thought of it. She twisted, in time to the club’s electronic driving bass, sliding his hand over her hip.  It had been the weakest part of her plan, honestly, to get Megatron’s attention on the dancefloor of one of the Decepticon-controlled clubs.  But it had worked, which surely was a good sign.

“Like what you’re feeling?” The tension, she hoped, just made her voice sound huskier. It would hardly hurt, really, someone with Megatron’s ego, to think a tiny femme was at least a little afraid of him.  He was...really big.  It was one thing to read his schematics, which she had, before this, poring over the medfiles and programming specs, but quite another to have it right in front of you, huge and solid.

“It’s a promising start.”  His voice was deeper in person than it sounded over the radio intercepts, over the speeches he gave. It seemed to rumble right through her body.  

“I always keep my promises,” she said, tossing in a coy look...all the way up there, trailing two of her own fingers along his wrist. All she needed was to get him alone.  Just for a few kliks. That's all it would take.  

"I'm much more interested in the taking, than the keeping," he said, and the hand shifted to cup the curve of her aft, its mate, laden with the fusion cannon almost as large as Arcee was, joining it, scooping her off the dancefloor.  

She couldn't hide the surprised squeak, but he hardly seemed to mind, pulling her against him, pink and white against his titanium grey chassis.

"S-seems a big strong mech like you takes whatever he wants," she said, flailing for the persona she'd created.

"I do. Guess what I'm taking now."  The mouth quirked into a grin, sharklike and...rather hot, actually.  

"Could we...privacy?"  All right, the schoolmarm in her screamed about the bad sentence, there, but Megatron knew what she meant.

"A shy one, are we?" He chuckled, turning toward the far side of the club, carrying her as though she was a bag of hydrogen.  

She felt like a bag of hydrogen, light and giddy and insubstantial and it was all she could do to clutch her smaller fingers around the edges of his broad chestplate as he cut a swath through the gyrating crowd on the club’s dancefloor, nodding at some dour-faced mech before entering one of the dark, private booths.  

The sound fell away as the booth’s sound-dampening field swallowed them and he lowered her, far more carefully than she’d thought he could, gently onto a padded bench.  She had barely detached her hands from his chassis when his mouth found hers, pressing against her mouthplates.  Arcee’s fingers found the sides of his helm, fingerpads dancing over the cool arc of metal, giving a wistful little sigh that wasn’t entirely acting as her mouth parted under his.  It was, she’d admit, a little dazzling to be the center of so much attention, after so long.  

His hand was busy on other work, sliding down her body, tracing the curve of her chassis, thumb skirting over the seams of her chestplate on its way down to her thighs.  She felt her systems online, hips pushing up against the hand, inviting a touch to her interface hatch.  

“Eager, aren’t you?”

“Too eager for you?” she replied, archly, quirking one delicate eyebrow.  

Another of those velvet chuckles. “I always did like...spirit.”  His hand moved obligingly over her interface hatch, pausing just for a moment, building a wave of delicious anticipation between them, before he pressed the hatch open, sliding over the burnished metal to her valve cover.  She felt her calipers cycle, hips rocking down, pressing closer to the touch.  

Megatron moved, looking down the gap between their bodies, the size of his hand, and the narrow span of her hips, giving an aroused purr, before tracing a lazy spiral on the valve cover.

Arcee shuttered her optics, feeling the closeness, the dense plush of his EM field, the light ouch of that one finger, maddening, against her body. She wanted more, more than that one point of touch, that one contact.  The valve cover retracted, and she pushed down again, tipping her hips imploringly.  Part of her mind had lost the thread that this was Megatron, the leader of the Decepticons, violent enemy.  Part of her remembered it, though, and the idea of someone so powerful, so important, so dangerous touching her, waking her pleasure sent a little frisson of lubricant from her valve, tingling and warm against the tip of his finger. He pushed in, slowly, experimentally, and she could feel her pleated lining spread around the thick digit. She squeezed down against it, a wonderful shiver running from her valve through her whole body.  

“Please,” she said--whimpered, really, hooking one heel around his hip, as high up as she could get, tugging him down.  

He gave a wry shake of his head, an indulgent smile curving over his lips as he twisted his hand, corkscrewing the finger out of her valve, to open his own hatch. His spike sprang up between them, dark and glossy and...big, thick and aroused.  The idea that she could do that, could get a mech that aroused just from a kiss, just from a little touch or a dance, went straight to her head, as though she’d drunk the most powerful engex on the menu on an empty tank.  

“A moment.”  He reached into some storage compartment, coming up with a small device, which he pushed inside her with the tip of a finger.

Arcee cried out, as the device tripped on, and she realized it was a lubricator, sending cold, silicon lubricant through her valve, bracing and shocking her valve’s mesh.  

Megatron shook his head, lowering his hips, and she felt the presence of the spike at the entrance of her valve--the finer vibration, the same rich, deep EM field. He moved slowly, and she gave a long, shuddering gasp, as the spike pushed into her, inching in, pressing her valve’s lining wide open, filling her.  She felt her internal mechanisms part around him, taking him deep inside her, clinging to his hips with her pink heels.  

“Not many frames your size can take me,” he said, almost approvingly.

"I'm full of surprises." She thought--but only briefly--of the energon daggers tucked in her kibble.

"You're full of me." He seemed as aroused by the idea as she was, shifting his position, stirring the spike inside her.  

She felt full, filled, stretched, and on the edge of something wonderful, dropping her head back, fingertips like small claws clutching at the powerful arms, urging him to move.

He did, slowly, and the idea that she was calling the shots, he was following her lead, almost made her lose her control utterly. But she wanted this to last, at least a little while, wanted this impossible-to-describe feeling of the huge spike plowing slowly, but relentlessly, into her, stretching and tormentng her valve. The cold of the lube bomb faded, heated by the slow, steady friction, sliding in and out of her.  She could feel his gaze on her, hungry, studying, feeding off the way her mouth twitched, half-stretched into a soundless cry of pure pleasure, rapt by the size of him, the movement, the soft surface under her, the hard metal above, the cold and heat swirling together inside her, and the surging waves of his EM field crashing against her.  

It was too much for her to last long, and she felt her whole body arch, electric and blissful, against him, thighs clutching at his hips, head thrown back in a wild howl that didn’t care if the guard outside could hear. She felt wanton and thrilling and alive, her calipers gripping the spike, milking it, feeling the hot rush of his transfluid inside her, fluid for a frame his size, far, far more than she was used to. It swelled her valve, leaking out around them, causing its own spiraling rush of pleasure.

He made no sound, only the deep throbbing of his engine, hands bracing his body off her.  

Arcee didn’t want the moment to end--it felt so good, so good to finally let go, to cede control, to be taken like this, gently but firmly. So she lay, just for a moment longer, optics closed, feeling the wonderful ebb of pleasure through her body, and she would have stayed there for far, far longer, but Megatron moved one hand, reaching easily between her back kibble and her struts, pulling out one of her daggers.

She stiffened, and the last bliss fell, shattered, from her.

“Your performance was flawless,” Megatron said, his deep voice lifting into a smirk. “But your assassination technique is another story.”

This...this was it. She’s failed. She’d screwed up, and no one knew where she was. No one would even know where she was, until she failed to report, and then--maybe--someone would actually read the plan she’d filed.  And by then she’d be...scrap.

Megatron shifted back, his spike pulling from her valve, as slowly and carefully as he’d done everything tonight, his optics holding hers as he stowed his equipment. “It would, pretty assassin, take a lot more than this to take out a gladiator.”  

She squeezed her optics shut. “If you’re going to kill me, get it over with.” There was a whimpering ‘please’ in her voice. She was brave, she thought, but not that brave, not the kind who could endure long torture.  Especially not after she had such a bright, sweet moment.  

A laugh, easy, casual, and she felt the thunk of her dagger on her chassis. Her optics flew open.

“I could never kill such a beautiful dancer,” he said, simply, and then rose to his feet, and it was clear from his voice that the 'dance' he meant wasn't just the kind on the dancefloor. 

She watched, stunned, as he moved to the barrier, then through it, disappearing back into the roar and bustle of the club. She waited, a half a beat, not caring that she was still sprawled, legs spread wantonly, fluids leaking from her valve, but the guard didn’t come to finish the job.  

He was letting her go. He was really going to let her go.  Because he’d seen through her plan and had her anyway.  

Just as she’d thought he would, she thought, pushing up, feeling the character she'd created fall from her, and stowing the dagger again.  She found a cloth from her storage to wipe herself presentable, if not clean, and then reached into her mouth, pulling the second chip, the spare chip, from under her glossa. She wouldn’t need it now: the one in her valve had planted itself on his spike, toggled on by the charge of the overload. She's be able to track him, listen in on his conversations, everything, from this...interesting vantage point. The last place, she figured, anyone would ever look.  

She was grateful for that: she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to swallow it all if it had gone the other way--though a part of her, newly awakened, wouldn’t have minded trying, the very thought sending an ache through her, the sweet pain of a newly born sensuality. 

They always did underestimate her.


End file.
